


The Best Antidote

by Calais_Reno



Series: Conductor of Light [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Background Case, Don't copy to another site, Drug Addiction, Falling In Love, John Watson is a Good Doctor, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Only One Bed, POV Sherlock Holmes, Prostitution, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Watson is pretty damned smart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27178495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: A very young and serious Holmes meets a rather bold and equally young Watson who has found himself in a spot of trouble.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Conductor of Light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983838
Comments: 90
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A non-canonical first meeting for Holmes and Watson. Holmes is just starting his consulting career, and Watson has just returned from Afghanistan.

It was on New Year’s Day in 1881 that I met John Watson. He recounted our meeting in a rather romantic story he wrote and published some years later. What he described was, in fact, a complete fabrication. We did meet on that date, but how it happened was quite different.

I had awakened to a telegram from Lestrade, asking me to come to the scene of a puzzling murder. Though he is undoubtedly the best Scotland Yard has to offer, even the simplest murders seem to require every ounce of the man’s observational skills. As I have previously noted, a police investigation generally consists of tramping all over the scene, leaving footprints, grasping at clues, misinterpreting evidence, and making a complete mess of things. Though I’d attempted to train Lestrade not to touch anything until I arrived, he was clearly not yet ready to take instruction from me, a man so much his junior. The telegram spurred me into action.

I’d been restless the evening before, as I often was, with the added annoyance of the New Year’s revelry, and had taken a larger dose of morphine than usual in order to rest. When the telegram arrived before breakfast, I hadn’t yet taken food. Wanting to be off quickly, I had a cup of coffee and gave myself an injection of cocaine, not much more than usual, to clear the fog in my mind. I took a cab to the crime scene.

It was a cold, damp day, the kind where breath instantly becomes vapour and the moist air seems to penetrate every layer of clothing. The streets were almost empty, most of the celebrants likely sleeping off the last of their revelry, and the driver, in spite of my insistence that I was in a hurry, seemed to move more slowly than necessary. By the time I arrived at the scene, I was irritable and shivering a bit. I gave the man a small tip, tucked my scarf more snugly, and lit from the hackney.

The body had been found in an alley by a nightshift worker returning home, by which time the victim had been dead some hours. I had become rather familiar with London alleys over the last year. Narrow, dark, scrawlings on the wall, rubbish underfoot, an alley was not the ideal place for a celebration, but it was perfect for many types of violent crime. In this alley I saw signs of the night’s revelry, empty bottles and broken glass, but the corpse, nearly decapitated by some blade, was jarringly out of place.

Naturally, the policemen who responded first had disturbed all the important evidence. I chastised Lestrade, who apologised, saying he hadn’t arrived in time to lock the area down. One of the policemen proudly showed me several knives which were found near where the body was discovered, obviously thinking one of them was the murder weapon. None of them, however, was sharp enough to have done the deed.

After walking the area and observing what I could, I knelt to examine the victim.

I had investigated enough murders to become somewhat inured to the sight of a blood, and even the severed neck of the corpse did not unsettle me. I noted that all the major vessels were severed, as was the oesophagus, the windpipe, and even most of the spinal column. A clean and swift cut, I deduced, made by a strong arm wielding a very sharp blade.

It was at that moment, as I leaned over the corpse, that I began to feel short of breath. Morphine has a depressant affect, which includes essential body processes. I am always careful with my dosing for this reason. Cocaine I take took for its stimulating effect, but generally not first thing in the morning, as it can cause agitation. Somehow, these two effects were warring in my body.

I felt agitated, and yet could not breathe. Though my pulse was racing, it was as if my body could not catch up. I sat back, seeing the walls of the alley, the sliver of sky above, and the people in my periphery begin to spin. Everything went dim.

Lestrade was at my side at once, fingers on my wrist. “Just lie still, Mr Holmes.”

By then I was lying flat on the ground, though I had no memory of deciding to do that.

“It’s nothing,” I assured Lestrade, and tried to sit up. My stomach heaved, and then it was a good thing I hadn’t eaten in so many hours. Turning to the side, I spat out bile.

A flurry of activity began around me. Someone loosened my collar and took my pulse. Lestrade was shouting orders, and many feet were tromping over the scene, which I had fortunately already scanned.

“We’ll get you home now, sir. I’ve sent word to your brother.”

I was helped to my feet by two constables. Unsteady, I leaned on them. “There are too many weapons,” I said, my voice sounding faint and faraway. “The kitchen knife, the switchblade, the…”

“Easy now, don’t think of it,” Lestrade said.

A cab arrived; Lestrade helped me into it, gave my address to the driver, then directed one of the constables, Murcher, to accompany me home.

By the time we reached Montague Street, my head felt somewhat improved. My hands shook, though, and I wobbled when I attempted to step down from the cab. Murcher grabbed my arm and guided me to the door, which was promptly opened by Mrs Turner, my landlady.

“Gracious! What’s happened to Mr Holmes?”

Murcher had an arm around my waist, steadying me. “He fainted, ma’am— I’m sure he’s taken ill. Maybe it’s the grippe.”

I would have contradicted him, but the stairs were already taking all my energy and concentration. I took them slowly, feeling irritated with Murcher, who was keeping me from pitching down the stairs, angry at my treacherous body, which had let my brain down, and embarrassed that I had to be handled like a delicate lady with a fit of the vapours.

At the top of the stairs stood another source of vexation: Mycroft.

My brother stepped forward to take my arm. Attempting to shrug his hand off, I found myself lurching without control, heading for the floor. Murcher and Mycroft together grabbed my arms and piloted me towards the bedroom.

“Thank you for your assistance, Constable,” Mycroft said, dismissing the man. “I’ve sent for our doctor, who should be here soon.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” I rasped, my throat raw with bile. “I know what’s ailing me.”

Mycroft had removed my shoes and coat, and was now unbuttoning my waistcoat. “I think we both know what’s ailing you,” he replied severely. A door opened downstairs; voices floated up, indistinct, Mrs Turner speaking with a man. My brother stepped away from me. “I believe Dr Anstruther has arrived. I’ll apprise him of your _condition_.”

Even in my current state, I could hear that the light steps on the stairs were not those of the elderly physician. A younger man with a slight limp.

“You called for a doctor?” A young man’s voice. “I’m Doctor Watson.”

Mycroft had stepped out into the sitting room. “Where is Dr Anstruther?”

“I am attending his patients while he is recovering.”

“What is wrong with him?”

“I’m sorry to say he’s had a stroke. I’m his partner, and he’s asked me to fill in while he recuperates. Where is the patient?”

“The _patient_ is waiting for a _real_ doctor to arrive,” Mycroft said in icy tones.

“I _am_ the real doctor,” Dr Watson countered. ”And you must be Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft gave a short laugh. “We won’t be needing your services, _Doctor._ ”

“Mr Holmes, I am a Bachelor of Medicine, a Master of Surgery,and a fully qualified physician. Let me examine the patient.”

Not many men would answer Mycroft Holmes in such tones. I imagined my brother puffing himself up to reply, and sudden curiosity made me sit up. “I will see Doctor Watson,” I called.

Mycroft made an audible squawk of protest, but the doctor was already heading down the hallway towards the bedroom.

The man who came through the doorway was not as tall or broad as his bold words had implied. A small man, compact and thin ( _injured, spent months recovering from an infection_ ), blond hair and a neatly waxed moustache. Instead of cowering before my formidable brother, who had attempted to quick-step down the hallway in order to head him off, he stood like a soldier, his head held high, his focus on his patient.

“What seems to be the trouble, Mr Holmes?” he said, stepping deftly around Mycroft.

“You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”

“Yes, I—“ Dr Watson paused, his eyes wide. Dark blue eyes, I noted. “How do you know that?”

“Leave us, Mycroft,” I said, waving towards the door.

My brother frowned. “Sherlock—“

“Leave us. And close the door.”

Once the door was shut, I turned my eyes on the doctor.

“You returned home roughly six months ago, invalided out because of a near-fatal wound to your shoulder and another, less serious, in your upper thigh. You spent weeks recuperating, which suggests that you contracted an infection, and have only recently joined Dr Anstruther. When he became ill, you took over for him in order to keep his practice from failing. A very kind deed, but it’s a shame, really, because you do not possess the degrees you boast of.”

Watson frowned. “What gives you the impertinence to question my credentials?”

His indignant glare made me smile. “You are very brave, _Doctor_ , and quite intelligent. Clever, even. But, given the experience you claim to have, you ought to be at least twenty-eight, more likely thirty. I would put you closer to twenty.”

His frown deepened. “How can you possibly—“

I held up a hand. “In Afghanistan, you spent months in the sun and wind, but your skin does not show the degree of weathering that could be expected. I have made a study of facial contours and the effects of ageing. While to some degree these things depend on heredity, they fall within a definable range. Your cheeks and your jawline, not to mention your eyes, tell me that you are nowhere near the age your feigned credentials suggest.” Having said all of this quickly, I found myself almost breathless.

Watson’s mouth opened and closed several times. “That was amazing. How… how could you know this?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes. It is what I do.” I said this with as much dignity as I could muster while stripped down to my undergarments.

“You’re a detective.”

“A consulting detective.”

“And a morphine addict,” said the fake doctor, folding his arms across his chest and scanning me. “You’ve been addicted for some time, using it mainly in the evenings, for sleep. It makes you lethargic during the day, and when you need more energy than you can get from caffeine, you take cocaine. Lately you have been working on a case that has taxed your reserves, and your system could not handle the dose you took this morning. That is why you collapsed.”

He took my wrist between his fingers and thumb. “A bit unsteady,” he said, “but not dangerously so. Still, you should stay in bed today. No activities.”

I looked more intently at the man standing beside my bed. _Yes, very intelligent. Bad luck can happen to anyone_. “Please sit, Doctor.”

Watson pulled over a chair and sat, looking curious, but still defiant. “How did you know I returned six months ago?”

“The Battle of Maiwand was in July. Once you’d confirmed that you were stationed in Afghanistan, it was simple to deduce that was where you received your wounds. Your bedside manner is abrupt and you are overly defensive. This tells me that Anstruther took you in only a short while ago and hasn’t trained you up properly. You went to him before the holidays, I assume, when the weather turned cold. You were living on the streets by then.” I smiled at his amazement. “Now it’s my turn, Doctor. How did you learn medicine?”

“My father was a doctor.” He said this with some reticence. “And my grandfather was a surgeon.”

“In Northumberland. Oh, please— don’t look surprised. Your accent tells me. Similar to Scots, but there are distinct differences.”

“I was born and raised in Hexham,” he acknowledged.

“And you learned medicine from your father.”

“Yes. Hamish Watson was his name. He was a doctor— and a drunkard. I was in school when he died, just starting my bachelor’s at the university in Edinburgh. My brother had a job, so he supported our mum, and I left school for the army.”

“Edinburgh? Did you know Joseph Bell?”

A sudden smile lit his face. “I did indeed! He lectured in several subjects while I was there. I attended all his lectures. What a brilliant man!” 

“He gave you an introduction to Dr Anstruther. They went to school together.”

“Yes. When I came back from the war, my mother had passed away, and my brother was not able to help me. I needed work and wrote to Dr Bell for a reference.”

I could not refrain from smiling. “And you diagnosed me with just one year of school under your belt. Pretty damn smart.”

He raised his chin and squared his shoulders. “I may not be a fully-fledged doctor, sir, but I am here because you require medical attention. However bogus my credentials, my responsibility is clear. You require treatment, even if you choose to ignore my prescription. I speak from some experience, having seen many men caught in the very trap that has snared you, and I must tell you that it will not end well. It is a pathological and morbid process which leaves permanent weakness. The game is not worth the candle, Mr Holmes.”

I smiled at his earnest expression. “I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. Your analysis was mostly right.”

“What did I get wrong?”

“It is not my work that leads me to the drugs. It is boredom. Idleness exhausts me. I have been several weeks without a case, and when I was summoned this morning, I had taken a dose of morphine late in the evening, in order to sleep. I took cocaine early, when the telegram arrived… well, you can see the result. Just a chemical imbalance. My mind rebels at stagnation; I must have stimulation. The cocaine relieves my boredom and provides a transcendent clarity that stimulates my mind.”

“Your mind is part of your body,” he replied, with some passion. “Whatever has an affect on one will alter the other. Are you willing to lose the power of your mind simply because you cannot endure boredom? Tell me, how long have you been using these drugs, Mr Holmes?”

“It was at Cambridge that I began. I can go without— as long as I have a problem to solve.” This was not strictly true; the cocaine I could generally forego, as it had less of an addictive effect. I had found morphine’s grip much more tenacious. Though I’d kept the doses small, leaving it produced unwanted effects. It had become a vicious cycle.

Watson gave a short, humourless laugh. “I see. One addiction substituted for another, the ills caused by the one alleviated by the effects of the other. You know what my advice will be: stop abusing yourself— body and mind— with drugs. You will experience some discomfort as your body adjusts.”

“Thank you for your advice, Doctor,” I replied. “I shall consider it. Tell me, how long were you on the streets?”

Surprise widened Watson’s eyes. He looked down, shamefaced, but then raised his head and gazed at me with a fierce defiance. “A month. After I was discharged from hospital, I stayed at a hotel. My pension being small, I ran out of money.”

“You were too proud to—“

“I am not a proud man, Mr Holmes.” He stood and began replacing his instruments in his bag. “I would give you something to help you through the sickness you will have as you withdraw from the drugs, but none of it is any good. You do not need more depressants or stimulants; what you need is to steel yourself for discomfort and allow your body to become accustomed to doing without. If you’ve left it before, I suggest you do that again, and not resume the habit.” He held out his hand. “Best of luck.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

I watched him walk through the door, heard him exchange a few words with Mycroft. Then his feet on the stairs, the front door opening and closing.

“Well?” said Mycroft, standing in the doorway.

I lay back on the pillow, closing my eyes. “Nothing you need to know about.”

I had no intention of quitting the drugs. They were useful, and the harmful effects appeared to be limited. Science was always finding medicinal cures for the ills that plagued humanity. Why not a cure for boredom? Why not a drug to stimulate observational skill and elevate energy? Many medical journals agreed: cocaine was not at all harmful, but served as a useful stimulant for the intellect. It had the unfortunate effect of stimulating libido, but then there was the morphine, a safe and often-prescribed remedy for pain, insomnia, catarrh, tussis, and hysteria.

But then I thought of Watson. Though he was young, he spoke with the sad authority of experience, undoubtedly through his service in Afghanistan. And I thought of those lovely eyes, that straight carriage, the tone he used with Mycroft. I’d almost laughed out loud when he heard him insist _let me examine the patient._

I stayed in bed for two days at Mycroft’s insistence. These thoughts occupied my mind as I lay there. I doubted that I would ever see Watson again. The man was blessed with a better appearance than the other unfortunate veterans I saw, and possessed of a brazen confidence that I found myself admiring. He would find his feet eventually, and not end up back on the streets.

I had no reason to think of the man any longer, but found that I could not entirely dismiss him from my thoughts. That proud carriage, those dark eyes— and other things. My mind began to create fantasies without my direction.

The drugs weren’t a cure for boredom only, I acknowledged. They were a cure for _this,_ the distraction that would not let go of me. I’d learned my own nature and discreetly indulged at Cambridge, quietly in agreement with a peer or two, secret trysts in dark rooms, hasty indulgences.

Sexual fantasies are often a sign of mental illness, I have read, especially when they involve acts which do not propagate the species. But giving rein to such fantasies seemed more a sign of mental weakness than of disease, I thought. These indulgences made me feel weak. I saw myself succumbing to base physical needs, my mind enslaved in a body that craved release.

When I discovered that morphine had the power to shut off my libido, I felt that I’d found the cure for those unwanted and very illegal feelings. It was liberating.

But it was also bad, physically. It must be bad to want something so entirely that you would sell your own soul for it.Morphine did that to a person, I’d learned. And the cocaine was not much better. They had become another kind of distraction. I could foresee that they would eventually take away the very thing I sought to preserve— my mind. I’d seen addicts in that state, out of their minds, unable to reason at all, driven only by their need to take more of the same substance that had put them in that pitiable state. Watson was right. I needed to quit, rather than become like them. I would have to find some way to manage my urges.

My nanny used to scold me, warning that _touching oneself_ was a sin that would send a soul to hell. Because I did not believe in heaven or hell or God, I disregarded these warnings. Nor had I heeded my father, who had warned that it would lead to insanity. But libido was a still distraction from my work, and I found it abhorrent to relieve myself, as if I were a pubescent boy.

Indulging myself with other people was complicated and humiliating. I have never been good at negotiating social interaction. And I’ve never had any inclination towards _romance._ But my brief, youthful experiences had taught me that physical contact with another person, smelling their arousal— it was more than a release.

That could become an addiction, if I wasn’t careful.


	2. Chapter 2

Five months after I collapsed at Lestrade’s crime scene, I had liberated myself from both drugs. It was a struggle, especially at first, but I felt improved. A cure for my other problem was more difficult.

I knew of establishments that catered to men like me, and even learned of one exclusive _maison close_ where I could use an alias. But the problem was not the need for release. It was the sublimation of my intellect to my libido. It was a curse to be so bound to the flesh, and even my best efforts at self-control were no match for the desires that stirred me.

Some men marry; others have affairs. I had no intention of undergoing matrimony, and affairs involve sentiment, which is an even greater distraction. Many single men go to sporting houses, and this is considered an acceptable way for a man to deal with his urges until he finds an acceptable wife. Even married men do this, and no one shames them or calls them mentally unbalanced.

I went once to the _maison close_ , when I felt desperate. Then I began to go weekly, considering it as therapy. After all, people go to quack specialists for nervous complaints, enduring electric shocks and bitter-tasting potions that are mostly alcohol, and no one considers those cures shameful.

There was always the possibility of being recognised, though. I might claim to be on a case, and perhaps the police would look the other way, aware of my growing reputation for solving difficult murders. But it was a risk. And the shame I felt at succumbing to such urges was heavy. It showed me to be a weak person.

My brother, as always, was aware of my activities, and made his thoughts known. One morning in May, I rose from my bed and came into the sitting room to find him occupying my chair.

“You’re an idiot.” He took a sip of the tea Mrs Turner had brought up for him.

I filled my own cup and sat down in the client chair. “Good morning, Mycroft.”

“You are careless with your person,” he said, “and with your reputation.”

“Where does this intelligence come from?” I supposed Mycroft was guessing, hoping to bully me into a confession. “Are you spying on me?”

“You were seen,” he replied. “Fortunately, the person who saw you had the good sense to inform me.”

“But not the good sense to stay away from such places?”

Mycroft coloured; whether with anger or embarrassment, it was hard to say. “I do not care about the reputations of other people,” he said. “I care about yours.”

“And your own, no doubt.”

“What if our mother were to learn what you’re doing? I have kept it from her because she has always had high hopes for you, even though you have disappointed her more times than I can count. If our father had known the depths to which you would descend, he would surely have cut you off. What if you should be arrested? These houses are sometimes raided, you know. Would your friends at Scotland Yard continue to ask for your help if you were found at such a place?”

“What I do is not illegal, strictly speaking. This _place,_ as you call it, is very clean and reputable, as _places_ go. I’m sure the owners pay well to keep the police from their doorstep. If there were a problem like the one you foresee, I would simply say I was there on a case, and the next time Scotland Yard finds themselves out of their depth, they would call me.”

“The law may change, little brother.” Mycroft pronounced this ominously. “Sodomy is a crime, but hard to prove. There has, however, been talk of making other acts illegal.”

“For what purpose? All right, close down all the molly-houses. Let all the inverts stay home and abuse themselves and one another. But why make a criminal act out of it when there are no victims?”

Mycroft sighed and shifted his bulk in the chair. “I do not disagree, Sherlock. But change happens, whether it is practical or not. These attitudes come in waves, and we are currently on a rising tide of conservative values. Decency, home and family, protect the children—“

“There are no children involved.”

“Young boys, then. Do not dismiss my concerns, Sherlock. Perhaps your _place_ does not use boys, but such things happen in establishments that do not require a password for admittance. Have you ever walked through the Regents Park at night? Scandalous things take place there after dark. Many young men are out of work, many soldiers returned and unemployed, and they do what they must to survive. If they cannot find a place at a molly-house, they peddle themselves in the parks and on the streets.”

“Then maybe your party should do something about unemployment,” I said. “Why do we always find a cure that is worse than the disease? Or put a plaster on the problem instead of fixing it?”

“It’s a free economy, brother. As in the animal kingdom, the fittest survive.” Mycroft set down his cup and prepared himself for the exertion of getting to his feet. “What I mean is this: stay out of such places.” He sighed deeply and regarded me with something like affection. “You might simply marry,” he said. “Really, Sherlock, it cannot be not so bad.”

“You advise me to do what you would never consider. It would be a lie.”

“Marriage is always a lie,” Mycroft replied. “It’s not meant to be anything more than a solution, a way to take care of needs in a socially acceptable manner, and fulfil an obligation to family. You do owe them something, brother.”

“I am not like you, Mycroft. I cannot be other than what I am. There may be women who would tolerate such a marriage, but I would not be so lucky, and I refuse to live my life as a lie. Love is an emotional thing, opposed to that true, cold reason which I place above all things. I shall never marry, lest I bias my judgment.”

“It’s a lonely life, Sherlock. You should not be alone.”

“Says the most unsociable man in London, the man who belongs to a club where talking is forbidden. No thank you, Mycroft. I prefer my own company.”

“There is a difference between silence and loneliness, brother. I hope you may learn that one day.”

“I am not lonely,” I said. “Nor will I marry. These rooms I occupy, however, are small, as you can see. If I am to build my business, I will need a larger flat. If you will assist with that, I shall stop going to this _place_ you object to.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, evaluating. “Do you truly mean it?”

“I do. I have found a flat on Baker Street. A better area, no molly-houses within close proximity. Pricier, of course. But cheaper in the long run than paying redcoats to serve my needs. Will you agree?”

“No drugs, then, either,” he replied. “If you will agree to that as well, I am willing to help. But you must improve your income. I’ll give you six months, and if you cannot afford it by then, you will need to find someone to live with you.”

“You have my word.” I stood and regarded my brother. “You worry too much, Mycroft. Quite touching, but there is no need.”

“We will see,” he replied, putting on his hat and taking his umbrella in hand. “We will see, brother mine.”

He showed himself out.

I moved into my new rooms at once. Mrs Hudson, my landlady, was more talkative than Mrs Turner, and I worried that she might expect me to have a conversation every time she brought up breakfast or tea or the mail, but she did not seem to mind that I only grunted, and I soon learned to tune her out.

The good men of Scotland Yard continued to call upon me for assistance when they were out of their depth, and were good enough to pass along my name to potential clients. Their cases, though mostly boring, brought in enough to pay more than my share of the rent. My brother Mycroft was still paying half, as we had agreed.

I thought of John Watson from time to time. More often than I should have, but the man had aroused my curiosity and even a grudging admiration. I expected that he was managing Anstruther’s practice with few problems, having enough common sense and practical experience to handle the types of illness and injuries that might come to him. It seemed a waste for such a man to spend his days treating diarrhoea and dyspepsia, sniffles and coughs. I imagined him bored, but at least he was making a living.

It was a case, in a way, that brought me to the Regents Park one night. I suppose it was curiosity, too. A body had been pulled out of the lake a few days earlier, and Lestrade had called me to help. It turned out to be an accidental drowning, the result of excessive alcohol intake, but before I arrived at that conclusion, I interviewed the young man who found the body. A handsome fellow of about twenty years, he was shabbily dressed, but with a certain flamboyance. He would not explain his presence in the park, but was obviously not taking an early morning stroll. Coins jingled in his pocket as he recounted what he’d found. Lestrade made a crude joke about a cock in hand, two more waiting in the bushes.

I thought about the strange night life my brother had hinted at. From the sound of the coins, mostly copper, and the fellow’s clothing, I did not think these entrepreneurs made out very well. But it was no concern of mine, really. They provided a service and were paid for it. People do what they have to do, and if it was a crime, it was victimless. But I was curious to talk with one of those creatures. More than curious, in fact.

Late one night I walked up to the park, not sure what to expect. I might have brought my revolver, just as a caution, but decided against it. I often walked at night, sometimes in unsavoury parts of town, and was quite able to hold my own in a fight, thanks to two years of boxing at Cambridge.

There was a full moon and the park was busy. I observed pairs of men retreating into areas secluded by shrubbery and trees, and even heard sounds of passion in the darkness. By comparison, the molly-house had seemed as quiet and well-ordered as a monastery.

A voice from behind the bushes startled me. “Hey!” someone shouted. I heard scuffling and the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, though not in passion.

As I stood there, listening, a man came barreling out of the bushes, knocking me to the ground. He did not take the time to see if I was hurt, but ran as if his life depended on it.

A moment later, another man followed, cursing. “Thief!” he cried.

I hadn’t yet made it to my feet, and the pursuer tripped over me, sprawling across the path. At once he leapt to his feet and came to my side.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked. “I’m sorry— that man robbed me and…” He stopped speaking and stared at me.

“Good evening, Captain Watson.”

“Mr Holmes.” He quickly buttoned his trousers and tucked in his shirt. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m… on a case.”

He knelt down beside me. “Are you hurt? That scoundrel knocked you down with some force, I imagine.”

“I’m fine.” When I attempted to rise, however, my back spasmed, and I groaned.

“You’re injured,” he replied. “Let me help you. It’s too dark here to examine you. May I take you home?”

“In your waiting coach-and-four?” I chuckled at his expression. “I can get a cab.”

“Absolutely not,” said Watson. “Until I can see you’re not seriously hurt, I’m not leaving you.”

“Is this where your surgery is located now, _Doctor_? Do you examine your patients behind the shrubbery?”

“Mr Holmes, you may have your laugh at me. We both know why I am here.” Without asking, he put his arm around my waist and began walking me slowly towards the road. I startled at his touch, then allowed myself to be led.

“You carried off your doctor impersonation very well, I thought. Have you decided to give up fraud and go in for other sins?”

“Doctor Anstruther died in February,” he replied. “He caught the influenza and it turned to pneumonia. It was too much for him, after the stroke. I’m sure you were aware of this— and of your brother’s threats.”

“What has Mycroft done?”

“He paid me a visit just after Anstruther’s death. _If you continue with this ruse that you are a doctor, I will set the Medical Board on you,_ he said. _It may have been marginally acceptable for Dr Anstruther to call you his assistant, but he is dead, and if I hear of you attempting to practice medicine anywhere in Britain, I will see you transported to Australia._ ”

“Ah, yes. The Medical Act. My brother has meticulous knowledge of the letter of the law. Obviously, you have no wish to visit Australia.”

“Not as a prisoner,” he replied bitterly. “I had to leave the surgery and fend for myself. He’s alerted all of the hospitals, so I can’t go near them. If I were willing to empty bedpans, I couldn’t get a job there.”

I felt Watson’s arm tighten around my waist and looked down at him. “I’m sorry, Doctor. Your diagnosis of me was correct, and I have taken your advice.”

“Mr Holmes.” The moonlight fell on his face, making his eyes look like the sea under a cloudless sky. “It is well known that morphine suppresses the libido.”

I paused for a beat before replying. “I am aware of that, having studied chemistry at Cambridge. Why do you tell me this?”

“I understand why you dosed yourself. You should not be ashamed.”

“I am not ashamed. You are mistaken. Perhaps it is you who are ashamed, having degraded yourself, taking money in return for sucking men off. You’re an intelligent man; you should be pulling yourself up rather than selling yourself.”

I felt Watson stiffen a bit. His voice was soft, though, when he spoke. “I do not begrudge you the money your family obviously has. Perhaps you would understand my position better, though, if you had been born poor.”

We had reached the road. A cab was coming along slowly, looking for passengers. Watson steadied me at a lamppost and ran towards it, hailing it.

I found that my back hurt less now, but allowed Watson to assist me into the cab and see me seated.

“If you like, I can ride home with you, examine your injury.”

I thought of Watson in my sitting room, removing my shirt, feeling my back and ribs. In the darkness, I felt my face flush, my member begin to stir.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just bruising, I’m sure. I am already walking much better.”

“Well, then,” Watson said, nodding. “Good night, sir.”

This encounter weighed on me for many days. Watson was more than just a smart fellow who knew how to make a few coins; he was intelligent and confident. Why had he not found another job? Surely there were employers who would be happy to hire such a bright young man. The thought of Watson in the park, servicing men, troubled me— not for my own feelings, but because the man was worth so much more.

If I had an assistant, I thought, I might bring in more cases. Though not a doctor, Watson had many skills that would be useful in crime solving. I’d often had minor injuries which I attempted to treat myself; I imagined that he knew how to treat even serious wounds. His diagnostic ability, though not honed through practice, was similar to my own talent for deducing from small details what had happened at a crime scene. Though I’d never worked with a partner, I considered that it might be good to have someone looking after the details of my life that I tended to ignore. I had a habit of letting the flat become untidy and the bills go unpaid when I was busy. When I thought how much more smoothly my life might run, it seemed a perfect solution.

But I had barely started my own career— the world’s first and only consulting detective— and though I was beginning to find private clients, I was still dependent on my brother’s willingness to pay part of my rent.

I had nearly reached the conclusion that it was time to take another late night walk in Regent’s Park, when Inspector Lestrade stopped by my flat.

“We’ve got your boy in lock-up,” he said. “You’ll have to come down and vouch for him.”

“My _boy_.”

“Gives his name as John Watson. The constable thought he was a rent boy,” Lestrade said. “I didn’t know you’d taken on an assistant.”

I understood at once what had happened. “My practice has grown, Lestrade,” I replied. “It makes a great deal of sense to hire someone to do some of my legwork.”

“Well, you’d better take him off our hands. He’s a feisty one. Didn’t try to fight the officer, but he sure gave him an earful.”

“I will be happy to do so. Lead on.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Lestrade and I arrived at the station, Watson was sitting on a bench flanked by two policemen; he looked exhausted and unhappy, and had a black eye and gauze wrapped around his left hand. Glancing up, he saw me and had the grace to look ashamed.

“There you are!” I called. “Come here, boy— what trouble have you gotten yourself into? I thought I told you not to confront Jones.” I waited to see if he would catch on and play his part. Striding towards him, I snatched him to his feet and pulled his ear, not enough to hurt, but just to send a message: _you owe me now._

Watson did not grin, but there was mirth suppressed in his eyes. “I’m very sorry, Mr Holmes. I did just as you said, but he must have recognised me. He charged right up and tried to pop me in the jaw. I had to hit him back, didn’t I? And then these peelers showed up and thought I was soliciting.”

I curled my lip with distaste. “Very well, Watson. We’ll need to clean you up. I’ll take you home now.” I nodded at Lestrade. “Good evening, Inspector.”

Hauling Watson to his feet, I led him into the street, feeling rather pleased with myself. Tonight had put me in a good position to ask for what I wanted without guilt. I would not ask right away; first I needed to establish whether Watson could be trusted— and who would be in charge of this _business_ relationship.

The cab ride to Baker Street was silent. At the flat, I made tea and told Watson to sit, as if he were a guest. Without a word, he did, looking chastened.

My own manner would have to be stern, but not severe, I decided. Watson would explain himself, and I would take the rascal’s cockiness down a notch. I handed him a cup of tea and took my own seat.

“Mr Holmes, I—“

I held up a hand and he fell silent. Abashed, he drank his tea. The silence drew out. In order to obtain the proper result, I would have to make this _boy_ squirm a bit.

Finally, when Watson looked truly uncomfortable, I spoke. “Tonight you have drawn my reputation into question with people who have just begun to respect me. In addition, you have abused my generosity, incorporating me into the lie you told these policemen. I understand your troubles and regret that you found yourself in a difficult situation tonight. I suppose that you have a request to make of me, but please consider the person to whom you are speaking, Mister Watson.”

His face flushed. “I do beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I did take liberties, and I have no defence for that, other than my own desperation. The words were out of my mouth before I could think about it.”

I inclined my head slightly, suggesting that I might be merciful. “Temerity can be a good thing, but an excess can too easily lead to ruin. You told me that you are not a proud man, but it is surely pride that has prevented you from considering your situation and making better choices. You are an opportunist, Watson, and you have shamelessly taken advantage of me to raise yourself up.”

“You’re right to be angry with me,” he replied. “My mother didn’t bring me up to be a liar, but I suppose I am headstrong and rather unthinking. When I find myself pressed by circumstances, there is some instinct that rises up in me and acts without reason. You may rightly call that opportunism. And yes, I am obstinate, and sometimes hot-tempered. But I have admirable traits as well. I am industrious for a cause, persistent at a task, and loyal to a person when that is merited.”

“I notice you don’t mention _honesty_ among your many fine traits.”

“I have never lied to _you,_ Mr Holmes— not about your health, not about my own credentials and, erm, activities. Nor will I conceal anything from you. I have some rather shady skills, I confess. I’m a decent picklock, if you should ever need that skill. Dipping my hand in a pocket to retrieve a purse is something I learned as a boy when my dad was drinking too much to feed us. I don’t mind breaking the law, in a good cause, and have been arrested on minor charges, but most of that was years ago. I mean, other than tonight, I haven’t had any recent dealings with the police.In spite of some irregularities in my past, I would call myself a moral man. If I swear my loyalty to another, I will not betray him. I will devote all my industry to you, sir. You will never catch me disloyal.”

I sipped my tea without speaking. Watson was clever; he had moved beyond apologies and straight into job credentials, before any offer had been made. But I still had the advantage, and could force him to accept my terms.

“I have not made you any offer, Mr Watson.”

Watson nodded and leaned forward with an earnest look. “Mr Holmes, sir. Let me repay you, please. I have no money, but I can compensate you in other ways. I could work for you, perhaps assist you—“

“I work alone.”

“Yes, sir. But you’re a busy man, and there are things I can do that will let you work better, put your time where it is needed. I can run errands, organise your records, maintain your wardrobe, manage whatever menial tasks you may require. I have medical training, and might help at a crime scene. I know Scotland Yard has its own experts, but I would be your employee, answerable only to you. And if you should be wounded or ill, I can take care of you. I know how to stitch a wound, set a bone, and treat most common ailments. I will look after all your needs, whatever they are.” He lowered his eyes. “I only ask for a chance to do this, to repay your kindness to me.”

While I maintained a steely exterior, inwardly I was smiling. Bold as brass, this rascal, but not insolent. A polite opportunist, a brave realist. Left in the conundrum he’d blundered into, it might be interesting to see what became of him. He might become a criminal, or he might be Prime Minister one day. Well, maybe not that, but he impressed me as a man of many possibilities. He might improve himself, or make things much worse. Product of a difficult childhood, he’d endured war, injury, poverty, and abuse. And still he sat looking at me as if he had a pocket full of money and a wall of degrees.

“How much would all these services cost me?”

“Name your price,” he said. “I’m lucky to make a shilling a night in the park.”

I considered his offer. Obviously, he did not grub after money, but something else. “What are you aiming at, Mr Watson? A man who says _name your price_ is either desperate to _have_ something or desperate to _be rid of_ something. Which are you?”

“I am desperate to have a job,” he replied. “You told me that I should have pulled myself up, not degraded myself. With all due respect, Mr Holmes, you have probably never been hungry. People do what they have to do when their bellies are empty. I know I have. But where other men will live from hand to mouth, I am not content to do that. I want a job that will not merely put food in my belly, but will give me an opportunity to learn and improve myself. If you value my assistance, I figure I’ll soon be able to negotiate a raise. That is why I will let you name the price. I trust you to be fair.”

“You’re very sure of yourself,” I said. “Perhaps you’ll find me an impossible man to work for. I may demand more than you are willing to give.”

The look he gave me was earnest. Though he was clearly out of options, he had weighed what I was offering— a mere chance, nothing more— and was still willing to take a risk, holding back nothing. _He’s a gambler,_ I realised, _a spender rather than a saver._ He might work for me for a while, but eventually another chance would appear, and he would be gone. _He lives for the next opportunity._

“I have never yet met the man I could not work for,” he said. “Life has taught me to adapt to the whims of those who pay me. Perhaps you will prove me wrong, Mr Holmes, but I will take that chance. And I believe that I have more to give than you suspect.”

“Very well,” I said. “Here are my terms. You will be my personal assistant, valet, butler, messenger, clerk; in simple terms, you will be responsible for whatever needs doing to allow me to work. You will be my eyes and ears, and occasionally my legs. If I ask, you will obey.” I paused to watch this register. He merely nodded. “To facilitate your duties, you will live here. There is an upstairs room which can be your own. I will provide you with all necessities — meals, clothing, etc. If you are truly a reader, you are welcome to read whatever you find on my shelves.”

“Very generous of you, sir.”

“At times, you may find me a difficult man to please. My work is everything to me. It is irregular, sometimes requiring me to labour for days with little rest, at other times leaving me utterly idle. I cannot promise you certain days off. My work does not have a schedule; crime happens when it happens. Many aspects of my cases are highly confidential, so I must have your absolute loyalty. You will accommodate yourself to my whims, apply initiative where you see opportunity, show restraint where you might overstep. I will not go easy on you.”

“I would not expect you to, sir.”

“As for wages, consider that you will have a place to live and not want for any necessities. For one month, you will work without compensation. I will count that as repayment of the debt you owe me and a trial of your worth. If after one month, I decide to retain your services, we will negotiate your wages.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“If you are ever disloyal to me, if you ever reveal information about a case to anyone with whom I have not authorised you to share that information, or reveal any personal information about me to anyone, including my brother, not only will our deal be broken, but I will turn you in to Scotland Yard for fraud and prostitution. In fact, should you decide to walk away now, I will hand you over to the police. You owe me at least a month of service for what you have done.”

His face was solemn. “I will not betray you, Mr Holmes. I will do everything you ask, with one condition.”

“What condition is that?”

“In matters of your health, you must be ruled by my advice. I cannot work for a man who uses drugs to his detriment.”

“And if my own personal physician prescribes those drugs?”

“I will supervise your use of drugs in such a case,” he said. “Knowing your history, I could not let you slip into bad habits once more.”

Holmes nodded. “Under your watchful eye, _Doctor_ , I am certain I will not need another doctor.”

He was as silent and attentive as any servant I have known. Moving about quietly, he tidied up papers, books, and dishes. The flat had a small kitchen with a sink and a gas burner. Every morning he had tea ready as soon as I had finished my toilet, and when we had eaten the breakfast Mrs Hudson, my new landlady, brought up, he took the dishes down to her.

“He’s a lovely young man,” she said. “Very nice manners, considering.”

By _considering,_ it was obvious that she meant _he’s not upper class._

“Yes, he’s working out quite well,” I agreed.

“I hope you won’t chide him too much, Mr Holmes.”

I was willing to chide him, viewing it as a useful strategy for correcting the impulsiveness that seemed part of his character. There was little to chide, however. I had expected him to chatter more, but he had a gift of intuitive silence, and seemed to know when his words would be welcome, and when they would be an intrusion.

We had two cases in that first week. Neither was difficult to solve, and I asked Watson questions at each scene to see how his mind would work over the types of problems usual in detective work. His observations were accurate and detailed, and though his conclusions sometimes lagged, he had the right instincts. He did not have the experience to unerringly focus on the right details, but he seemed eager to learn.

The next week, I took him to the scene of a grisly double murder to see how he would handle it, whether he could analyse the scene of bodies lying as they had fallen in a violent altercation. In my experience, even some soldiers find that the smell of blood unsettling, likely to trigger memories of battle. The ability to remain analytical was important to my work. This was a test.

Lestrade stopped Watson as he followed me into the house. “Wait. Who’s this?”

“My assistant. John Watson.”

Lestrade nodded. “I remember. Nice to see you, Mr Watson.”

I corrected him. “That’s _Doctor_ Watson.”

The inspector did not look entirely convinced. Watson smothered a smile.

There were two victims, Lester Markland and Owen Davies. Lestrade had said that they were not related, but Davies was the brother and Markland was the suitor of a Miss Lottie Davies. There had been a quarrel and both had ended up dead, presumably at each other’s hands, but Lestrade had indicated that the evidence was contradictory. I shared none of this with Watson.

Once we were in the room where the victims lay, I said, “Tell me what you see, Watson. Don’t touch anything, though. These policemen have already done enough damage to the evidence.”

Watson’s expression was focused and a bit sorrowful. He walked around each corpse. “Knife wounds.” He knelt down next to the larger body. “Flick blade.”

I smiled. “How can you tell?”

“The wounds look like they were made underhand, judging by where the blade went in. That one is a shorter man. If I was going to kill a taller man with a knife, I’d use a flick blade, stick it to him underhand. A gut wound is nearly always fatal.”

Using my handkerchief, I held up the knife that lay near one body. “This knife, however, is not spring-loaded. Do you stand by your observation, Doctor?”

“There had to a’ been another knife. That’s a common kitchen knife, and the blade is too wide to have made these wounds.”

“Have you ever been in a knife fight, Watson?”

“No, but I’ve seen plenty, seen men die that way for bugger all. How long has he been dead?”

I laid his hand on the man’s neck, then took Watson’s hand and placed it there.

“He’s still warm,” Watson said. “So, an hour? Maybe two?

Without being asked, he put his hand on the neck of the other victim. “This one’s cold. He must a’ been dead already when the other bloke got stabbed.” He sat on his haunches, looking back and forth between the victims. “You know what’s odd…”

“Tell me.”

“The cold bloke didn’t bleed as much as the other. What’s it mean?”

“What do you think it means?” I undid the shirt buttons of the cold corpse.

“Hardly any blood,” Watson said. “He was already dead when he was stabbed. If the heart’s not pumping, the blood won’t leak out. But why stab a corpse?”

I restrained an impulse to fondly ruffle his hair, patted his shoulder instead. “Excellent, Watson. That is an extremely relevant question.”

“What’d he die of, then?”

“Another relevant question. Tell me what you think.”

“You might stab a corpse if you wanted someone to think that’s how he’d died. Maybe the warm bloke killed the cold one by strangling him, or poison or something— and stabbed him after he died so it’d look like there was a fight, or maybe self-defence. But how’d the second man get stabbed? He didn’t stab himself. And the knife was different.”

_Worth his weight in gold_ , I thought. _Not that I’m going to start paying him in sovereigns._ I turned to Lestrade. “Arrest the sister.”

“Whose sister?” Lestrade asked.

“Sister of the warm corpse. The cold corpse is her lover, poisoned by her brother, who then stabbed the lover with the flick knife to make it look like a fight. See the wounds on his arms? He was trying to make it look as if he’d tried to defend himself. She found her brother stabbing her dead lover, and stabbed him with the carving knife. Amazing how stupid people become when they panic. I suppose she thought that it would look as if they had stabbed one another. Even if I hadn’t seen the fibres from the warm corpse’s jacket stuck in the wound of the cold corpse—”

“Brilliant!” John Watson was looking at me with unabashed admiration. “Amazing!”

I smiled. “Yes, I am.”

I came home one day from interviewing a witness to find Watson and my brother staring daggers at each other across the sitting room. I could see that my assistant had prepared the tea, as he always did for guests, and had taken his seat across from Mycroft.

As I took off my wraps and entered the room, Watson rose and offered his chair to me and hurried to hang up my coat and brush off my hat.

I could not tell if any conversation had taken place, but as soon as I was seated, a fresh cup of tea placed in my hand, my brother cleared his throat.

“I see,” he said, glowering.

I smiled. “Your observational skills are excellent, dear brother.”

“You’re paying him?”

“Not your concern.”

“I think it is. You promised to stop paying for certain _services._ ”

“I promised not to visit certain establishments. And to give up drugs. Both of these promises I have kept.”

For a moment he turned his malevolent gaze on Watson, who stood behind my chair, attentive as always. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him standing straight as a ramrod, his expression proud.

“Really, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “This _boy_ is a lowlife and a criminal. He will cheat you out of every sovereign you earn. He’s probably still carrying on his _enterprise_ in the park. I hear that you bailed him out once already.”

I could see Watson’s hands balling into fists. _Hot-tempered, indeed_. To forestall any impetuous actions, I encircled his wrist with my fingers and tightened my grip in warning.

“This really has nothing to do with you, Mycroft. If I have given employment to this man, it is because I need an assistant and he has the necessary qualifications.”

My brother gave a loud snort. “Qualifications.”

“As I say, it isn’t your affair,” I repeated.

“This is a very _irregular_ affair,” he said forcefully, leaning forward and stabbing his finger towards Watson to make his point. Up until this point, he had not spoken to Watson. Now he turned on him, sneering. “My brother may seem to you a very compassionate man. Do not be deceived. When he tires of you, as he will, you can count on him discarding you. His conscience will not trouble him about this. What you will learn about my brother is that he cares for no one but himself.” Ponderously, he rose to his feet. “You have been warned.”

Watson fetched his coat, helped him into it, and handed him his hat. I could tell he was angry, but determined not to show his irritation.

Our contract was vaguely-worded, but Watson did not balk at anything I asked of him, whether it was running a message, buying tobacco, or keeping my clothes brushed. He even scrubbed out the bathtub after one particularly awful experiment. All these things he did efficiently and without complaint.

Though my brother concluded that I had hired him for a more personal reason, that was the one thing I had not asked of him. Though I had implied that Watson would attend to all my needs, the only requests I had made outside of work-related tasks were making tea, preparing breakfast and an occasional sandwich, and running me a bath. Watson sometimes chided me to eat, and if I had a yearning for something particular, he might run out to a shop and buy it. He often told me that I was over-extending myself and reminded me that sleep was also necessary for the brain. Though it was in my power to insist that he attend to the needs of my libido as well, I found that I could not bring myself to ask that.

I had given up my liaisons with men at the _maison close_ because of Mycroft’s warnings. I did not feel shame about these encounters. They were physical indulgences, like tobacco or brandy, nothing more— inconvenient, but they staved off the distraction. I had sworn off love, and sought no romantic partner. I am not a sociable man; giving in to sentiment would weaken my reason, I felt. Without my mind, I would be nothing.

Watson might have been willing to indulge my libido, but I found himself reluctant to ask. The man had worked as a rent boy, so it shouldn’t be degrading. Nevertheless, it felt wrong, a step too far. I concluded that I had become fond of him. This was the very thing I had feared; I worried that these feelings were already compromising my objectivity.

There were moments when I might have asked him, but I asked myself how that might change things between us. I had no doubt that he would take care of my needs if I asked him. He had never questioned anything I had asked him to do, not even the menial tasks. He might have said, _I will not clean your toilet, sir,_ but he had not. The only thing he had stipulated was that I not use drugs.

But I could not bring himself to ask for this, no matter how distracted I felt.

Drugs were the very remedy I was considering, morphine in particular. I both craved Watson’s company and dreaded it. My flesh responded to that compact body and warm scent. Other people, both men and women, responded to him as well. When we walked together, I noticed the way women looked at Watson. 

He had a way with people, always polite and sincere, but with a charm I had not spotted in my initial assessment. Watson was not above any company. He joked with tradesmen, chatted with vagrants and derelicts, and addressed aristocracy without fawning. As he had told me, he was not proud, but neither was he obsequious. He made no apologies for who he was, but recognised his betters and looked for ways to improve. That was admirable.

I was deeply attracted to him, but not in a way I had ever felt attraction. The intimacy I’d had with men before was an impersonal contact, anonymous and soon over. What I felt for Watson was more personal, and the intimacy I craved was something deeper.

When I’d pondered this for three weeks, I was shocked to discover that I had fallen in love with Watson. The evidence was clear: in that man’s presence, my pulse and respiration were elevated. I had never been a social man, but now I looked forward to evenings in front of the fire, discussing philosophy and science. His opinions were untutored, but he had a way of seeing things that showed a native intelligence. Though not himself luminous, Watson conducted light, and I was willing to live chastely in that light rather than risk losing him.

When we met in the park, I’d been freed from the morphine for just days, and had relapsed after that encounter. Since Watson had moved in, I had tried to keep my part of the agreement, and even disposed of the small bottle I kept in a drawer in my room. The hypodermic syringe I kept in a morocco case hidden inside an ingenious safe— a hollowed book I’d once found in a junk shop. I used to keep it by my bedside, but had lately stuck it on the shelf in the closet so it would not remind me of its purpose.

But I thought of it constantly, especially at night, when I imagined him coming naked to my bed, offering himself to me. I imagined the size of his prick (easy to see that it was not small), and how it would feel in my hand. When I fell asleep at last, after hours or torment, my mind took its revenge in vivid, erotic dreams. All of this was pointless and compulsive.

I noted how happy and eager Watson looked when discussing medical things. I could see a longing there, a regret for things he had not done and might never do. No doubt, when he could save enough money, he would return to school or find more lucrative work. Perhaps he would meet a woman and marry.

And it would be better for me if he left, for then I could forget him entirely and find a more impersonal way to deal with my body’s urges. Just a few days remained until his probatory month was over. I would have to let him go, I decided.

This thought filled me with unexpected sadness. But it would be much worse when Watson decided to leave, as he surely would some day. I could not let that happen, either.

I went out and bought morphine that night.


	4. Chapter 4

Each night before bed, I gave myself a dose of morphine. As I’d hoped, the vivid, erotic dreams stopped. I did not revert to the cocaine, and was able to make do with one daily dose of morphine. If I grew anxious when it was close to my usual time, I would go out for an evening walk, sometimes with Watson, more often leaving him behind to take care of some task. By keeping him busy, I hoped that he would not have time to consider my habits too closely.

My attraction to him did not wane. It was more manageable with the morphine, but still present every minute I was with him. I needed distraction, and took out my restlessness on Watson, making him run pointless errands and recopy his notes for no reason other than to avoid the intimacy I craved.

Lestrade had no cases for me. This was inconvenient, but not unusual. Fortunately, I had received a letter from Inspector Forrester in Surrey, asking me to consult with him on a house robbery. The family was not wealthy, nor the client illustrious, which meant that the cheque would not be large. I wished for the day when I did not need to consider a client’s ability to pay well, but my month was running out and I would soon need to begin paying Watson. I needed the income; I needed something to occupy me as well.

And the case was not without interest. Mr Downs claimed that his deceased wife had been haunting him, and had actually stolen a valuable necklace which had been kept in a safe, the combination of which was known only to Downs and his wife. Had I believed in ghosts, I might have remarked that his wife certainly had a right to her own property, however insubstantial she had become. She had asked to be buried in the necklace, he told me, but the value of the piece dissuaded him from doing this.

The house was not large, he explained, and was currently being repaired following a minor fire on the upper floor. This was no problem; we would stay at a local inn. 

“I’m sending you on ahead,” I told Watson. “You will interview the people I ask you to see, and write up your observations so I can read them when I arrive. I have some matters to attend to here, and will join you as soon as I can.”

“Matters?” He looked puzzled. “What matters?”

“Family,” I said, having prepared my lie ahead of time. “Mycroft has some business that involves me. I have refused many times before, but I’m afraid I cannot fail him this time.”

He nodded, accepting this explanation. “Very well. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Already done. You’ll leave tonight, stay at the Bedford Inn, and go up to the house tomorrow. Interview the family, servants, anyone connected with the house. Examine the outside of the house and all of the upper floor rooms, including the area where the fire was. Make sketches, and note where the outside walls might be scaled. Take note of anything out of the ordinary, anything that might indicate someone has entered or left the upper floor through a window.”

He grinned. “You’re assuming the explanation is natural, not supernatural?”

“I hope you’re not suggesting it could be anything but human,” I said. “Someone in that house knows. It’s your job to find out who it is and what they’re hiding.”

“You’ll contact me when you’re coming up?”

I promised I would, and sent him off.

The problem was this: my dependence on the drug would not let me forego it for even one day, and staying in a room with Watson would certainly make injecting myself hard to conceal. My plan was to wait until he had collected all the relevant evidence and facts before I made my appearance. I would go up early, put the clues together, and we should be able to take an evening train back to London, avoiding the need for me to spend the night.

I used the time while he was gone to solve another case that Lestrade had brought to my attention. It was tedious, not the sort of thing I would ordinarily accepted, but it kept me from imagining the two of us in a room together at the inn.

When I arrived at the scene, Lestrade looked surprised. “Where’s your boy?”

“On another case.” Even to my own ears, my reply sounded a bit testy.

He frowned. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” I then proceeded to prove that I was not at all _fine_ , but completely unreasonable. I gave my solution and left.

There was a telegram from Watson when I returned home, stating that he had finished investigating all the things I had instructed him to look at, and several other things as well. He begged me to come in the morning and hear his theory.

I could delay no longer. Realising that I might need to spend the night, I put the book safe in my valise. With any luck, I could arrive early enough to solve it with time for us to catch an evening train back to London.

The universe was conspiring against me, I decided as my train pulled into the station in Surrey. Rain was pelting down, making any outdoor investigation impossible and soaking me through my coat. Watson met me, umbrella in hand.

“Let me carry that, Mr Holmes,” he said, taking the valise from me and using his umbrella to shelter me. “The Bedford is not far.”

A short cab ride and we were there. He ushered me into the inn and stripped my coat off of me. I was irritable— tired, wet, and more affected than ever by his presence.

“Your trousers must come off, too,” he said. “Let’s go to the room and take care of that. You have brought another pair, I assume.” He reached for my valise.

“No, don’t bother,” I grumbled. “We can sit by the fire whilst you brief me on what you have learned. By then I will be dry, and perhaps the rain will have ended.”

He nodded. “I’ll just bring your valise up to the room, then.” He was already on the stairs. “I’ll bring you something hot to drink when I return.”

The discomfort of sitting in wet trousers was no less than the distress of being near him. He was like the morphine; withdrawal had been no cure for my feelings, which now resurged even more powerfully. He returned with some tea, which helped only slightly.

I listened as he went over his notes. He had done very well, considering his inexperience, but I found fault wherever I could.

“I’ve talked with the old man and his son, Edwin, who has a girl— a fiancee, I mean.”

“What does this girl look like?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “I didn’t meet her.”

“Really, Watson, I thought I could rely on you better than this. The girl is critical.”

“She works on the staff of a neighbouring house. Yesterday was her day off, so she wasn’t there. The old man doesn’t like her, thinks she’s using his son to rise up in the world.”

“She is,” I said.

“And how can you know that?”

I sighed. “The Downs family has sold off most of their land, and no longer has much income from what remains, but our client still considers himself landed gentry. That much was clear in his letter to me. He would not be happy to see his son marry a housemaid. But she could do far worse. For her it would be a step up in the world.”

“Maybe the girl actually loves his son, though. Just because she’s a maid, doesn’t mean there isn’t affection there. Edwin seems to really love her.”

“You are looking at this matter through the wrong lens, Watson. This is not a romance, it’s an equation. Of course he loves her. That doesn’t mean she returns his feelings. Young women can be quite mercenary when it comes to marriage.”

He huffed. “I should have interviewed her.”

“Indeed. Continue.”

“The motive is obviously financial. Downs wants the necklace back not for any sentimental reasons, but because it is valuable. He plans to make repairs to the house and needs it as collateral for a loan. Burying it with his wife would have been foolish. He admits this freely. Both he and his son seemed distraught over the theft.”

“Does Edwin believe in ghosts?”

“He thinks his father is a bit senile and his guilt caused him to imagine the ghost. After the first appearance of the ghost, his father must have taken it out of the safe and forgot where he hid it. But he says they have been through the entire house, every room, every nook and cranny, and have not found it.”

“Watson.” I closed my eyes and shook my head. “You have missed everything of importance.”

“My inexperience shows,” he said evenly. “Instruct me, then.”

“Did you ask Mr Downs about this ghost that he _alone_ has seen? Did he describe it?”

“You did not tell me to ask about that. I assumed that we were looking for a flesh-and-blood thief, not a spirit.”

“He did not imagine it, Watson. Someone has staged this. We need to know exactly what was done and trace it to the person who had the means, motive, and opportunity to do so.”

He hung his head. “I’m sorry, Mr Holmes. I have been trying to proceed scientifically, because you always do. Forgive me. He did tell me about it, but I didn’t pay his description much mind.”

“Pray, what did he say?”

He then repeated in excellent detail Mr Down’s description of the ghost, proving that he had paid attention, but had dismissed it as unimportant. “She has appeared twice, both times when there was a full moon, wearing the dress she was buried in, and each time gestured to her neck, which was bare. It surprised him that she seemed younger, but she would not approach him, nor speak.”

“That is significant, Watson.”

He nodded. “I see that now. If it were pure imagination, she would have appeared as he remembered her.”

“And what do you conclude?”

His face blanked with sudden realisation. “Oh. You think the fiancee….?”

“Really, Watson,” I said drily. “You underestimate yourself. While you are certainly not luminous, you have a remarkable gift of stimulating my own genius.”

He smiled proudly. “Have I? I have tried to do everything as you would, and I’m glad that my observations have been useful, sir. Is there anything of consequence that I’ve overlooked?”

I laughed. “When I say that you have a gift, what I mean is this: in reaching for fallacies, you guide me towards the truth. Like a clock that runs slow, I can deduce the correct hour by adjusting for your slowness. I thank you for that, my boy.”

His face, so full of joy a moment ago, fell. He stared down at the notes he had taken. For a moment his eyes glittered and I thought he might cry, but he soon composed himself. Chastened, he said, “My only wish is to please you, Mr Holmes. As I have not yet achieved that, I will apply myself with greater diligence.”

In truth, I could find no real fault with his observations. He was inexperienced, and a bit romantic, but he’d taken good notes. Still, I did not praise him.

By noon, my trousers were dry and the rain had stopped. We prepared to visit the house, Greenwood Manor. There were only a few things I needed to see in order to clear up the mystery. We stopped by the neighbouring house on the way and spoke with Edwin’s fiancee.

Miss Daisy Jones was a pretty girl, and might have made a career on the stage, so self-consciously dramatic were her responses. With wide eyes and exaggerated expressions, she gave us her theory, which corresponded exactly with what the thief had meant us to think: an actual ghost had come to haunt Mr Downs for not obeying his wife’s last wishes.

“He’s a stingy old man,” she said. “And he’s got what he deserved. I hope she torments him to his death.”

“Thank you, Miss Jones.” I nodded at Watson. “We’ll go see the house now.”

Inspector Forrester was waiting for us at the house. I made my examination, starting with the outside, where Watson was able to point out several features, and then the bedroom where the ghost had appeared.

“I should have called in a spiritualist,” Mr Downs grumbled. “Woulda been cheaper than all this. Your boy here didn’t even ask me about the ghost. I told him, and he didn’t write a word down in that book he carries.”

“I agree, Mr Downs,” I replied. “A spiritualist might have cost you less. If you truly believe that the necklace is now in the realm of the supernatural, I wonder why you bothered calling me. Fortunately, the laws of physics do not permit the transfer of matter from the physical realm to that place where you imagine your wife now dwells. I am a man of science, and my methods do not include seances. My boy was merely following my directions.”

He frowned at this, then grew stubborn. “Then where is the necklace?”

I nodded at his son. “Ask him.”

Edwin, clearly less intelligent than the cunning maid, immediately gave up the game. Wringing his hands in distress, he said, “It was Daisy’s idea. And it didn’t harm anyone, did it? At the funeral she noted the dress and said her mistress had one almost like it.”

“And your wife was a small woman, like Daisy” Watson said. “She used powder to lighten her hair and skin, so she would appear ghostly. And the moonlight added to the effect.”

“The fire,” I said. “I suppose that was an excuse to get everyone out of the house. Actually, you’re quite lucky it didn’t do more damage. Even a controlled fire can quickly become a conflagration in a house this old.”

“Where did Daisy learn to crack a safe?” Watson asked.

“Her dad was sent to prison for cracking,” Edwin said. “He taught her.”

Watson nodded. “Useful skill.”

Forrester left to arrest Miss Jones, and we returned to the inn with plenty time to catch a train back to London. Relieved at the outcome, I thanked Watson for his contributions. His blinding smile was my reward.

I had noted some flooding of the roadways, but we had managed to travel from the house back to the inn without our carriage getting stuck in the mud. I was surprised, then, to learn that the railroad tracks had flooded, derailing a train. We would have to wait until the following day for transport.

“I held your room,” the innkeeper told Watson.

“Do you have another room?” I asked. “I will need a place to stay.”

“I’m afraid all our rooms are booked on account of the train situation. There were quite a few passengers needing accommodations, you see. But the bed in Mr Watson’s room is large enough for two,” he said. “If you don’t mind sharing.”

I did mind, but could hardly insist, under the circumstances.

Watson suggested that we eat before going up to our room. “Perhaps you could rest a bit before we eat,” he said. “You seem tired.”

“I am not a child, Watson, that you must fuss over my eating and sleeping habits.”

He smiled, patient as always. “Just doing my job. You did say that I was to care for your physical needs. But if you’d rather eat first, we will ask for an early supper and then retire.”

We ate an unremarkable stew with a fairly good bread. Watson had an ale, and I had a glass of wine. We finished our meal in silence, then climbed the stairs.

“You should have taken two rooms,” I grumbled.

“I didn’t think you’d be staying over,” he said, taking the key from his pocket.

I turned on him in anger. “Can’t you do even the simplest thing without my help?”

“I have done what I could, Holmes,” he said lightly. “As I said, it didn’t seem necessary to pay for two rooms.And considering the state of your bank account, I thought it well to save a bit of money.” He looked contrite. “I’ll find a spot downstairs where I can can kip. Perhaps they have some blankets I can use. I’ll sit up and read by the fire. That always puts me to sleep.”

Then I saw how I had hurt him, how tired he was, how eager to please me— and I was sorry. “No, this is fine. I’m a man of habits, and not used to sharing. I can… adjust.”

He brightened a bit. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. There is no reason for you to be uncomfortable just because I’m not used to sharing.”

“I’m never uncomfortable. In the army, we were packed together all the time. Not much privacy. I didn’t stop to think that it would distress you.”

“Say no more about it. I do not require much sleep.”

Watson went down the hall to perform his ablutions. As soon as I heard the door close, I opened my valise and began looking for the book safe. I would pretend that I was going to read downstairs for a bit, inject myself in the privacy of the lavatory, and return to our room when the morphine had taken effect.

As I moved my clothing around inside the valise, I realised that the book safe was missing. How could this be?I had packed hurriedly, but remembered using my dressing gown to conceal it.

Not finding it, I looked up. My dressing gown hung on the hook next to the mirror.

A door down the hallway opened and closed. Footsteps approached.

This was not as I had so often imagined, and yet, when he reentered the room, smelling like soap, my body reacted. I thought of him lying next to me, and I longed to put my arms around him. My prick twitched as I imagined this. But it could lead to no good, I reminded myself. If I were to have this, it could not be with Watson. Loving him would break our partnership. I must learn to deal with this impersonally and privately.

“I’ll take the side next to the window,” he said. “Unless you’d prefer it?”

“No, this is fine. I prefer access to the door.”

He climbed into the bed and settled in on his side, his back to me. I continued to rummage in my valise until it was clear that the safe was not there. There was only one conclusion I could draw. Watson had unpacked my night clothes and found the safe. I hoped that he had assumed it was a book and had not bothered to open it.

Embarrassed by my aroused state, I was reluctant to get into the bed. I removed my jacket and put on my dressing gown. My hands were shaking and I was breathing hard. I tried to calm myself for a moment, listened for Watson’s breaths. He was not yet asleep, I could tell.

“I think I’ll read for a bit, Watson,” I said, affecting a casual tone. “Have you seen my book?”

“Your book?”

“Yes, I always pack a book when I travel.” I drew a breath, hoping my voice would not shake. “It’s unpleasant to be stuck somewhere without intellectual stimulation, so I packed a book in my valise. I could be wrong, but I remember doing so. Perhaps I left it on my bed at home. I just thought you might have noticed it when you, erm, took out my dressing gown.”

“Is this what you’re looking for?”

He sat up and faced me, holding the book safe in his hand.

Sprawling backwards on the floor in surprise, I fumbled for the clasps to close the valise. “Just looking for my… my… book. Which you have found. Thank you, Watson. I’ll just—“

“Interesting story, this,” he said, opening the book safe. It was empty. In his other hand he held the morocco case containing the needle and a vial of morphine.

“Watson.” My voice was definitely shaking now. “I owe you—“

“What do you owe me?” His voice was soft, almost kind.

“I owe you an explanation,” I said, unable to think of one.

He sighed and looked down at the items in his hands. “I observed the signs, Holmes. I may not be a doctor, but I have enough experience to recognise that you were injecting again. I did not want to accuse you, though, without evidence. You deserve to be taken at your word. Now that you have lied, however—“

“No, Watson!” I said in a pitiful voice. “I packed that safe, thinking it was a book. I realise my mistake now. It’s been so long since I used it, you see, when I was hiding my habit from my brother. I didn’t even know what was in it— I simply thought I’d pack a book to read—“

He looked at the safe and smiled. “I suppose you find Boyle’s Organic Chemistry light bedtime reading?”

I decided to take the offensive. “I’d like to know what you were doing in my case.”

“I wasn’t snooping,” he replied mildly. “I know you hate your clothes being wrinkled, and since I am in charge of your wardrobe, I wanted to hang up your trousers and shirts. When I opened the valise, out tumbled good old Boyles, spilling his secrets. Holmes, be honest with me.”

I trembled. He might demand my honesty, but then he would leave because I had broken our contract, and I could not bear it. “You will leave me now,” I whispered.

He climbed over my bed and sat on the edge, his bare feet hanging down, looking strangely erotic and at the same time vulnerable. I’d never thought of feet as an erogenous zone, but his naked feet had that effect on me, which only shows how desperate I was.

His laugh was soft. “I told you I would leave, didn’t I? That was a foolish thing to say, and I should have known better. You don’t cure an addict by threatening him. I understand why you need it, though. Your libido will not let you rest. This is common when the drug is stopped after long use.”

“I have a defect,” I said. “The morphine lets me work.”

“There is no defect in you, Holmes, none that would require a medicinal remedy.” He said this gently. “Rather, the defect is in the way you live. You are young and have normal urges. Men are made to love. This is the species imperative. By refusing to obey this urge, you do yourself harm.”

“I do not wish to obey it.” My cockstand, now fully risen, wilfully refused to soften. Feeling exposed, I pulled my knees to my chest and buried my face against them. Foolish.

He climbed down onto the floor next to me. “Why do you not wish this?”

“Because I do not want to take advantage of you.”

“You take advantage of every other aspect of my life,” he said, laughing. “Holmes, you told me that I was to take care of you and, if you let me, I will. I must talk to you now as a doctor speaks to a patient, and you must listen to what I say.” He took my hands in his, stroking the backs with his thumbs. “Will you promise to listen?”

Such a monitory tone, coming from my pyjama-clad assistant, made me smile. “Yes, Doctor.”

“Come here,” he ordered, rising and pulling my hand. “Lie down on the bed with me. Don’t worry about your shirt and trousers. Just come to me.”

I did as he said, facing away from him. He curled behind me, putting his arm around me. Sighing in his embrace, I closed my eyes.

“Do you know why I took this job, Holmes? It wasn’t the promise of ten shillings a week, or even the hope of a raise. When you took me into your home, you said, _a man who says ‘name your price’ is either desperate to have something or desperate to be rid of something._ And you asked me which I was. I told you I wanted to better myself. But that was only part of the truth. I should have been more honest with you, but I wasn’t sure you would hire me if I was.”

“What do you mean?”

His hands tightened on my hips. “I know you are a man who avoids romantic feelings. You see it as a weakness, as grit under your lens. While I don’t want to distress you, I think I can help you. You must stop taking the morphine. I promise you will feel better when you are free of it. No, this is not negotiable. You need help to do this, and I will be that help.”

I jumped when I felt his hand on my prick. “Watson,” I rasped.

“Let me be your drug, Holmes. I am not some naive boy you are taking advantage of. And I will not expect more of you. Let me… do this for you.” He was pleading. “You are such a wonder, my dear. So beautiful, so brilliant. I would take half of what you could offer me, just to look at your face each day, just to see your mind at work. I would not presume to ask more than just to be at your side, but you have given me this responsibility, you see, and I wish to take care of you.”

His nimble doctor’s fingers undid my flies and his hand slipped into my trousers. I gasped as his finger smeared a drop of ejaculate over the glans. It felt exquisite, knowing it was _his_ hand touching me, not my own, not some stranger. Then he was turning me on my back, opening my shirt, kissing my neck, kissing his way down my body, his lips worshiping every part of me.

“Will you let me undress you?” he asked.

When I couldn’t answer, he pulled my trousers off and carefully folded them, then finished unbuttoning my shirt and did the same.

I lay on the bed, naked now, watching him. I could see his own cockstand bouncing as he dutifully folded my clothing. He returned the the bed, wrapped the sheet over us, and began kissing me again, making his way south. I felt his tongue on my prick, gently playing with the slit, and I moaned.

“I will take care of you,” he whispered. His mouth took in my prick. For several minutes I could not speak. The heat grew in my belly and I was afraid I would come in his mouth.

“Let me see you,” I gasped. “I want to see you, John.”

Smiling, he rose and removed his night clothes. In the moonlight he stood before me, gold skin tinted silver, a beautiful man, young and strong. His prick was firmly erect, impressive in size for such a small man. I reached out and took it in my hand, watching his eyes close. He sighed. “Oh, love.”

We lay side by side then, my hands feeling his firm buttocks while he worked my prick, stroking it with just enough pressure to keep me on the edge. He repositioned himself on top, sitting behind my prick, and took us both in his hand. Seeing him wanton and so lovely, I could not hold on any longer. As I slipped into lassitude, I saw his head fall back, his body convulse in his climax.

We lay panting for a few minutes, adjusting to this new reality. When our breathing had slowed, he retrieved a flannel from the bedside table and cleaned us up.

“You planned this,” I said.

“I did.” He gave me a questioning look, but said nothing.

“You made sure there was only one bed in the room.”

I felt him chuckle against my shoulder.

“Did you plan the rain as well? The train derailment?”

“No, that was just a happy accident.”

“It’s clear that I have underestimated you,” I murmured.

“When you sent me on ahead, I knew I needed to keep an eye on you,” he replied. “When I saw what was in your valise, I was glad we’d be sharing a bed. I wasn’t sure you would let me… well, I was prepared.” He reached over the side of the bed, showed me a small tin of petroleum jelly. “Maybe next time we’ll need this.”

“You’re absolutely shameless, aren’t you?”

He began kissing my neck. “Just being a good doctor.”

“You’re a bloody fantastic doctor,” I agreed.

We slept in, nearly missing breakfast. The trains were running, though, so we contented ourselves with coffee and toast.

On the ride home, he sat opposite me, and I took the opportunity to study him at length. From time to time he opened his eyes and looked at me, giving me a secret smile.

I was dreading the conversation we would soon have. The thirty days were over; he had completed his probation and would be free to go if I did not offer him payment to continue his service. This was not within my grasp, however.

I did not want to let him go, but I couldn’t ask him to stay. It was for the best, I reasoned. I could not afford romance; my career demanded absolute detachment, lest my reason suffer.

And Watson was ambitious. He would never be content with what I could offer him. He was meant for greater things. Maybe he would find a way to go back to school and get his medical license. He might have a practice, marry, and have children. This was what normal men wanted, men who were not haunted by abnormal desires. I could never give him those things, so why torture myself?

The train lurched around the corner and I thought of home. Once I was there, a cup of tea in hand, the fire blazing, I would not be able to say what I had to say. It would be better to have it out now.

“Watson,” I said. “You’ve been with me a month now. I gave you certain assurances when you accepted my proposal.”

“I remember,” he said. “And I understand that you can’t afford me.” He laughed at my surprise. “I’ve known all along, actually. As soon as I began managing your finances, I saw how thin you were stretched.”

“I’m sorry, Watson. You are correct. I haven’t the income to pay you what you deserve.I am willing to split the fee on this case with you. That ought to be enough to give you a fresh start.”

“No,” he said. “The money isn’t enough to make a difference.”

“But you’ll need somewhere to stay!”

He smiled. “Are you so eager to get rid of me?”

“You said— when we made our contract, you said that you wished to better yourself,that you expected to negotiate a raise. Since I’m not able to offer you anything, I assumed—“

“And yet, I wish to stay. Did you not understand what I told you last night?”

“But— it’s obvious that you’re ambitious. You want to make something of yourself.”

“I’m taking a gamble,” he said. “I’ve invested a month of my time, and I think it’s made me something— not money, but something better. I’d like to be your partner, Holmes. Let me continue doing what you’ve given me to do, and don’t worry about the money. I will help you manage the work, so the rent will be paid and food on the table. That will be my contribution to our partnership. In time our efforts will repay us.”

“There are no guarantees,” I said. “We may never prosper.”

“But we’ll scrape by, won’t we?”

“Yes, I think we might. But there will be some thin times ahead.”

“If that happens, you will ask your pompous, arrogant brother for a loan. And we’ll manage.”

“I don’t understand why you want to stay.”

“I’m a gambler, Holmes. You saw that when we met, didn’t you? I have gambled on you, and my instincts tell me that I am right. You can offer me nothing, but I will stay, if you will have me.”

“Last night,” I said.

He smiled. “Yes, last night.”

“I promise you, I won’t take the drugs again.”

“That’s right, you won’t. You will listen to your doctor.”

“I’m afraid I’m not…” I grappled for words. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”

“I do understand.” He came across and sat next to me. Taking my hand in his, he looked into my eyes. “You’re a singular man, one who prizes logic and reason above all else. You do not crave intimacy. Sublimating your intellect to your libido is abhorrent to you. Romance is anathema. And I’m telling you, it’s all right. I will not ask that of you.”

_Oh, Watson. I have already given it to you._

I do not believe in human perfection; we are not made that way. Sometimes, though, two people may find a near completion in one another. Some call that love, but that word expresses a human construct, imprecise and imperfect. I call it chemistry.

He was good for me, I decided. An definite improvement in my situation. He would keep my mind clear for the work, tidy up the edges of my life, cure me of my dangerous habits.

I would keep him as long as I could. One day he would leave, but I would not think about that yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have several more stories planned in this series.  
> I tagged this "Unresolved Romantic Tension" because Holmes is still resisting the idea of a romantic relationship, but no worries, he will eventually figure things out. ❤️❤️


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